Bouquets and Buckles: An Age Gap, Snowed In, Cowboy Romance (Crimson Ridge)
Bouquets and Buckles: Chapter 5

What am I supposed to do in a situation like this? If I attempted to offload my son’s best friend to some random motel in Crimson Ridge—right on Christmas—what kind of person would that make me? That’s the kind of shit reserved for heartless fucking bastards.

Skylar doesn’t have anywhere to go, and I’m sure as hell not going to abandon her all alone.

However, is the prospect of bringing her back to my house, my ranch, with the way the snow is sticking on the ground, going to be the greatest test of my sanity… most likely, yes.

I’ve yet to grill her about what I’m sure I heard her say over the phone just before. Even though I might have been still foggy with sleep, I know what she said down the line between her tears.

He’s such a douchebag… cheated on me.

Exactly like the last time we sat in this truck together, the drive has been silent. She doesn’t seem keen to talk, and I’m shit with words on a good day. Too many years on my own and too much time with only horses for company, as Brad likes to remind me.

Except, everything changes the moment we pull into the long drive winding toward the house. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her sit up a little straighter and take in the snow-covered trees and the sloping track leading to the stables. In front of us stands my simple property, nothing fancy but it’s home all the same, with a wooden porch wrapped around the outside. Steps run along one side that I can remember her and a group of their friends from high school spending hours sitting on playing music and being kids together during the summers.

“I’d forgotten how this place always looks so pretty.” She breathes, taking in the swirling snowflakes reflected in the headlights, and the glow of the house from where I’d left the lights on.

Yeah, I’ll agree with her on that. The only problem is that I’m certainly not looking at any of the sights outside this truck.

I don’t run a big property, enough for my own horses and ones that belong to others that I stable here on their behalf. During the warmer months of the year, I’ll offer training clinics and riding lessons, and some of the local rodeo guys and girls come use the place for their offseason practices. Brad and Flinn have their own cabin over by the barn and yards situated beyond the house, over the back.

While having my son here working the ranch is great and all, he’s an adult, and I’m happiest in my own company. Our living arrangement gives all of us enough distance that we’re not on top of each other.

That boy sure as hell loves to tease me that I wouldn’t survive without him, which is bullshit, but it’s easier having the two of them live on the ranch; I’ll grant him that. Even if they do love to steal my beer and help themselves to my fridge while they’re at it.

I pull up out front of the porch and cut the engine as Skylar keeps looking around with wide eyes like I’ve driven us into some sort of fairytale or some shit.

“Winter looks gorgeous out here.”

God, I can’t fucking get my head on straight. She sounds so relieved, so happy to be here, and that’s screwing with my already very messed up thoughts.

Something bucks around inside my chest and tries to crow about how good she looks here, too. With that pastel pink hair skimming her jaw, shorter than when she was in that passenger seat a year ago, but it suits her even more at this length. It highlights that pixie, heart-shaped face, perfectly framing those baby blue eyes of hers.

“Let’s get inside, get you warm. This snow is gonna keep piling up.” Coughing into my fist, I keep my eyes firmly on the house, the porch, anywhere but the gorgeous girl filling the cab of my truck with her feminine scent.

“Thank you so much again, Mr. Rhodes.”

Jesus. I both love and loathe the fact she’s calling me that. It collides inside my head with the force of two bulls charging one another. The fucked up part of my brain enjoys it more than I want to dare examine. The other part of me wants her to call me by my first name, because, at this stage, I’d do damn near anything to erase any lingering evidence of boundaries.

“Don’t mention it.” My jaw is almost frozen in place.

Do I dare admit the truth to myself? That I’d be tempted to discard my morals real quick if it meant being able to eliminate those infuriating invisible lines stretching between us. You know, ones that relate to our difference in ages, or the plain and simple fact she’s my kid’s best friend.

Staying in my seat is a bad idea.

I make the move to hop out and grab her bag from the back, but she beats me to it and our gazes lock from where we’re standing in the open doors facing one another from opposite sides of the vehicle.

From here I get my first proper look at Skylar. I get to really look at her, and there might as well be a bronc’s hoofprint on my chest judging by the way air struggles to reach my lungs.

Her cheeks are a little flushed, plump lips painted a stunning shade of pink that, on someone else, might look ridiculous, but on Skylar, it’s perfectly balanced with the sweetness of her pastel hair and hot as fuck silver ring in the center of her nose. A septum piercing, as I was informed by Brad, mid eye-roll, when I fumbled around completely tongue tied seeing her with it for the first time last year.

He thought I didn’t know what kids these days call that kind of thing, when really all I knew was that she caught me off-guard turning up at the house looking like a dream I hadn’t dared to believe existed.

Now, here she is. Catching me unprepared to navigate the way my attraction to her hasn’t faded in the slightest.

Clusters of puffy white settle on top of her wavy curls as delicate snowflakes, making her look like some sort of winter fairy that I’ve been gifted as a Christmas miracle.

Goddamn, why does this girl have to be so insanely attractive?

It might be snowing, the air swirling thick around us, but neither of us seems to be able to move, and that’s when her eyes waver. They dip behind those thick lashes, and if I wasn’t already aware of the thundering rhythm caged inside my ribs, that beat becomes erratic as all hell.

Her blue eyes drop to my mouth.

My fist grips the door to the truck so hard I’m sure the frame is going to buckle.

I’m not imagining this.

I’m not hallucinating.

Skylar’s tongue pokes out to wet her lips, and we both stand there like statues. Neither wanting to make the first move to break whatever unspoken connection this is.

Only, the outside world decides to choose that moment to invade our privacy.

Her cell phone bursts to life in her coat pocket.